Recharging

Being a mother is the most beautiful and rewarding experience I have ever been privileged to enjoy. But it is also the most challenging, maddening, aggravating, and absolutely draining responsibility I have ever had. The difference between motherhood and every other job that I have had is that I never get to take off my "mom" hat. My most important and constant responsibility is to take care of the adorable little monster who calls me "mama" and wipes her boogies on my shirt.

Most days I am ok with that, but some days I feel like there is nothing left of me to give. Today was one of those days. It was a day that I think was meant to test my patience, and I failed miserably. Due to a succession of sleep-deprived nights and an aggravating sore throat, I was already feeling less energetic than usual. I woke up late, had to quickly put Nicole in the tub because she greeted me with a morning blow-out, and barely had time to throw my hair up in a messy ponytail (not the cute, stylish kind of messy), then throw some food in a bag for lunch before rushing out the door with the realization that I was going to be late for work... again.

I returned home to a disastrous, smelly house that I had plans of taming while Nicole took her afternoon nap. But she had other plans. She decided today was not a day that she wanted to nap because she would rather cling to my pant legs and whine than sleep. Here is a snapshot of my day after returning home from work:

I give Nicole a snack and a drink, which will entertain her for a grand total of 10 minutes.

I frantically pull up a recipe on my computer for peach chicken while Nicole sips her water and watches Disney's Twice Upon a Christmas. I know, it's too early for Christmas. But she loves it.

Nicole pulls on my legs. Chicken juice covers my hands. I can't make it to the sink to wash my hands because she won't let go of my legs. She cries. I try to entertain her with nursery rhymes while I waddle to the sink dragging my angry cargo. Rinse, lather, rinse, then pick her up with dripping wet hands. She stops crying.

I try to put the rest of the ingredients together while holding a squirming child. I spill soy sauce on the counter and peach preserves on my toes. I mutter under my breath a few words that I am not proud of, then bend over to clean preserves off of toes. I accidentally bump Nicole's head on a kitchen drawer. She cries. I start to sing "Mooh Brothers' Farm" to her. She stops crying.

I give her two animal cookies (she prefers to have one in each hand), then gingerly set her down on the deck with the door propped open and slowly back away when she doesn't cry. I finish putting ingredients together and finally get chicken cooking on the stove. It is so blissfully quiet. Too quiet. I don't want to investigate because I'm enjoying the silence, but I know I must. Dark potting soil is scattered across the deck and part of the kitchen floor. Nicole is squatting next to it with brown fingers, brown feet, and a brown mouth. I sigh.

I clean her up, sweep up the mess, and let her play with the broom until she hits herself on the head with the handle. She cries. I pick her up and play "flying baby". She stops crying.

I remember the chicken. Frantically, I put her down, lift the lid on the stove, and gingerly prod the chicken with a fork. Tough as nails. Nicole pulls a pot lid out of the cupboard and it lands on her foot. She cries. I cry too.

Kevin gets home and I escape like an animal that has been caged for years and can't wait to be free. I desperately need to recharge. Computers, iPads, and cameras need recharging, and it turns out that moms do too.

I take Shiloh for a  walk in the rolling hills behind my house. You see the rounded hill poking out between that clump of trees? That is the destination I am aiming for. Night is creeping in, but I am determined to make it, as if reaching that destination will somehow help me erase all of my failures today.

While I am walking, I notice that the terrain is so varied. Some spots are smooth and the dirt creates puffs of powder beneath my tromping flip-flops, while other spots are littered with stones that threaten to twist my ankle and make me lose my footing. Kind of like life. Kind of like today. But that solid hill looms steadfastly in the distance, never wavering.

 

Finally, I get there. I have stubbed the same toe several times and Shiloh is dragging behind me in exhaustion instead of running in front of me, but we make it. I realize that I am still strong, even though I have felt weak and defeated all day. I can still do hard things.

I make a wish on the sliver of moon, then head back home - ready to be the type of mom I want to be. I just needed to escape for an hour and forget I am a mom, wife, employee, homemaker, and horrible cook. I just needed to become a tiny speck on a hillside and let myself recharge.